••• silver sanity •••

 

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the doors to my cathedral
were open with haunting symphony
echoing in between
galaxies and hallucinations

I bathe in silver beam
as the sun spits out monochromatic
drool of endless summer

but

the sweet divination
of the moon
in between cold burst of silent synergy
had me gasping
underneath myriad of stars;
surfacing
with a new wave of energy

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blackened blankness

lighted candle
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glass floor
crack as I waltz with the moonbeams
singing songs of
broken wings and fire

the age of growing up
receded, leaving me breathless
with no dreams

barren, I
wake up with charcoal stains on my face
and run-down crimson welts

a pretty distraught sight
to greet morning to

yet,
the morning song
remains the same,

with punctured lyrics
and dismantled refrains

a song
too lethargic to wake
me up

Depths

blue blur color dark
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for the longer minutes
of holding my breath in,
the images swirl past like tornado

the burn in lungs,
fogging senses
and the deep state of fear
surpassing all.

the feeling of cloistered thoughts,
repeatedly bashing
and the purged memories,
resurfacing with a vengeance-
the dip feels eternal
and the bathtub
a bottomless ocean

my fingers find a pulse
in the depth of tangled veins,
beating faintly
like a drowning poetry
taking its last swig of burning air

the time slows down
to a point where the brain hears the tick
loudly enough to trigger a migraine,
the cluster behind the eye
painfully dragging pointers
of how worthless and shameful I am

the truth
holding its agenda like a banner
to my face
of how… insignificant my life
is in existence

the years on my span
mockingly, whispering my wrinkles
are the failed attempt of me
trying to pick myself up

I feel like the silence
is poisoning me
yet, the light from somewhere afar,
urge me to remain strong

but, the pull towards abyss is stronger
than the push of myself to wake up,
just to breathe…

everything around
just dulls and greys
and I am just
mindlessly tiring myself out by sighing too loudly

Implode (NaPoMo 10)

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peaceful,
mournful;

the day sleeps on her shoulder
as she skins
chapters of the night,
into cracked mason jars.

I watch her-
breaking inside;

as her memories blink.

Woman

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intuition
catastrophic reverberation
falling syllables
moving highways

her words are lost
and
found in hurricanes,

her silence deepens
the moment
her heart withdraws

you may not realize
how hard she tries
to remain in the shadows
and not let her scars shine

you may not understand
how hard her lips quiver
how fast her fingers move
to take down the traitorous tears

grace
lipsticks stains
more
mac contour

love
left out loud
hate
halted in the right signs

you have to look
the right way
to see her inner shine

you have to capture
the right angle
to see her perfect smile

she is a woman
a warrior
a girl

she is a lady
a sweetheart
a girl

she is woman
a weak bud
strong stem

she is me
and her
and us
it’s I
if you don’t mind…

The breathing sculpture.

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There she stands in the outer edge corner, shadowed by her comrades, laughing at the joke that was displayed like a medusa head about her pot bellied expression of witless dreams and stained memories that lost its luster with too many sweets.

Once everyone turns to encore the moving articles around them, a tiny colorless melody drips from her eyes that have met and seen many intricate colored metaphors for her lifetime to suck her dry.  She wipes it away without disturbing the graceful black stroke that has outlined her mirror; with the color of her soul.

And she stands, with her hands crossed and legs slightly titled like a moon unsure of how he should come out for the party tonight. Her dress hangs loose and the stretched her already curved impression making her hard to breathe as the hues in front of her laugh; choking her to death.

She dances in the bathroom mirror, squeezing arrhythmic steps into her overloaded heart and the beat just jarred the cacophony even further.

Yet, with her renewed makeup and strength; she rises like a phoenix with a smile to kill soldiers in their best armor. Yet, when alone in the sanctuary of her confinements, she lost all her lustrous rhinestones to the sky who cried with her that night.

Everyone admired the starry skies.

My first slam

Image result for abuse victim staying strong

I am gonna tell a story.

When I was young
And didn’t know the world was cruel
I somehow survived being myself. Then and now, A blessing; I guess.
When they teased me for being the biggest in class
When I wore spectacle as thick as me with a chain into class for the first time
And when I ate too much than they could fill in their stomach
I was teased, mocked and laughed at.
But, I used to stay strong
And laugh with them for the joke that shook my body, my belly
I never cried when they teased me or belittled me
Because I was never in reality,, I was always in a dreamland.
I was something else
Maybe that was how I coped with things-
When I didn’t know what love was, what depression was, what sadness was
Maybe I was too ignorant
And that made me smile all the time and sleep with dreams full of bogus glitters.
Oh, but, yes, I cried
I cried thinking about my mother
She was always being scolded by my father
She was always crying when we were never watching
And I cried for my father
Because he was always stressed in his workplace
He was always unhappy in his life
But he provided us with riches and things
But never happiness
Seeing our loved ones unhappy won’t make us unhappy
It makes us miserable

When I grew up to have little projections in my chest
It was the size of a cricket ball
And it wasn’t anything like the insect bites on my friends
And that got me attention
Lots of it
I didn’t like the projection but I didn’t know that it was my breasts
And that will attract man like a moth to the flame
I didn’t know it then
I smile like I did always
And I was touched when I smiled
I didn’t know it was wrong
He was speaking to me very clearly, jokingly, about his life in his hometown
And I miserably tried to get out from his hands because I thought he was playing
But they were held too tight and… I was touched.
I didn’t know it then
That he was sick and I was a toy
I didn’t know what he was doing.
Now, I know… his frame of mind was to be cleaned with acid and
He should be taught from the beginning how to respect women.
I was young. Only sprouting wings.
And he blemished my clean slate with a memory I can’t wash off.

I was never a writer,
It somehow stumbled on to me while I was learning a boring subject for exam
Beautiful strips of golden caramel oozed in through the windows
And like possessed by a foreign soul, I took up a pen and paper
And wrote about the radiance
And I became a writer- when my heart started to learn about fear, fat, ugly and depression.

When I was fully grown to a small woman
I learned about my body
And still feel irritated and hate the tingles that stay on my breasts thinking about that touch
I should have kicked him, scolded him, told my mother
But I never did,
Cause they won’t understand.
My young brain had this notion that they wouldn’t understand
Not because I had any experience that made me trust them less
But I couldn’t bring myself to tell them
That I have been abused by a desperate man in the grocery store that my father always shook hands with
I hid that pain and betrayal and sadness in my poetry later on.
You see, I am not a writer.
Metaphors are for insecure people who want to hide behind words.
Yet, I have been called a metaphor queen
And I have been said I didn’t understand what metaphor was.
But, I used metaphor like I used water
To hide my tears once I learned words had that sort of power.
I never wrote… I hid

When I was finally a woman
With feathers yet to be born,
With stones yes to be turned
And life yet to be understood
I know what happiness, sadness, and emotions are
I know what each makes one feel
I wish for the bubbles on my hands that connect with happiness, to stay forever.
Because he only comes once in a while
And sadness smiles and stays by my side, always.
He loves me every night and I sketch the feelings on my pillows.

I am not a writer.
I don’t know how to write.
How to plot a story and tell them effectively
Because when I started to write this,
I had a different story line in my eyes
But when I began, my heart poured words and I am ashamed that I can’t even bring out what I really want to say
But, my heart said all of this, so it’s true and I let it be
But I am ashamed
I know I will be read and re-read by many
Some will say, I said too much, it’s too long, you have grammar mistakes and you suck
Plain and simple; you suck
And I know I suck.
Should I nametag it myself?
I have been sucking my life for eternity
Because even when God created me beautifully in his eyes
My rolled out thighs and protruding stomach made it clear in the eyes of people, that I am anything but beautiful
And the people made it their personal agenda to make me feel
I am fat
I am ugly
I am big

I have no messages to share
I have no wisdom to pour
I have no ideas to dare
And I have no chances left to explore

But, somehow I did
I wrote in midst of all those sword slashes
And I wrote with ink from my blood
But that was not enough for people to understand
That I have already been through too many thorns
And I am already being shredded
I am something else… other than what I show
But, people won’t understand

When I finally learned to understand and learn to realize
I was too fat, too naïve, too shy and too misunderstood
Way too fat to shed some pounds
Way too thick to make some rounds
Way too naïve to make understand
And way too stupid to befriend with

And I was stressed by life’s personalized concerts
I was shredded in emotional downpour
And I was caramelized in life’s personalized hurricanes
I came to know about the riches of life
And only then did I learn that all this time, my smile was a fake mask that I wore
A fake mask that I wore to cover my frown lines
A fakeness that my own heart made for me so that one day when I sit and realize that life is not as I believe, I shouldn’t be broken.

I don’t know how to write what my veins convey
I don’t know how to write what my eyes are flashing to me
Yet, I am writing like a machine
And I don’t know how to stop
I have too much to tell
Too much to yell
But I am already swelled
And this is all leveled
The platform is torn
And I have no audience
I cry to my soul
Yet, my life is a hollow shell
I fell bloated, inflamed and shamed
I want to release my demons
But I am stuck with their marvelous tingles
I am stuck inside my own body
Shackled with words that won’t come out
I am stitched with my own chords
And I am being beaten up by my own fears
I crawl myself into a ball and listen to the rainfall wondering if I could ever call and be answered by someone
I want to be nurtured, to be cradled, and to be understood
By someone who can understand my heart.
My mother soothes me, my brother makes me laugh, and I am being loved
But never understood for what I really am
I smile and hide and laugh and cry
I am never understood
And I think, I will stop pouring words now,
Since what I want to say is not coming out
And I don’t want to cry when I stop writing this

I just wanted to tell you a story
But I ended up with just clipped scenes from my story
And since, I am not a writer
And I don’t know how to write
I will end this here
With a big yellowish smiley period